Lawless (16 page)

They spoke for another ten minutes or so. When it was clear Wilson had run out of theories and gags, McBride, profusely offering his thanks, made to leave.

They went back through to the front counter and shook hands. ‘Be careful what you write, though,’ Douglas Wilson said absently. ‘Ginny Williams’ old man is – or was – a cop in New Zealand. He’ll shit on you from a great height if you make her out to be some kind of tart.’

From the
Citizen
office, McBride headed the Mondeo away from the town centre, steering an anxious course between the endless procession of golfers and tourists who pack St Andrews for most of the year. There were even some students, foreign ones mainly, who had stayed on rather than gone home for the holiday. Miraculously avoiding hitting any of them and only having to sound his horn at a dithering motorist once, he arrived, less than five minutes later, outside the house Ginny Williams had occupied at Clay Braes. He was not sure what he had expected to find – it had just seemed important to view the place where she had spent her last moments on earth.

As a murder scene, it was about as sinister as a kindergarten. He could just imagine the small garden in summertime, when it would be filled with brightly coloured bedding plants. The centrepiece on the postage-stamp lawn was a wooden bird table where two chaffinches were taking turns to extract nuts from a string bag. A stone path led from the street to the white-painted door. At the rear of the house, a privet hedge enclosed another garden about the same size as the one at the front. It was just as meticulously cared for and looked like it would be very productive in the vegetable department. McBride surveyed the bare earth and wondered what crop had been harvested from it in the summer and autumn months. It was a fruitless train of thought – with his limited knowledge of gardening, he was never going to cause Alan Titchmarsh to lose much sleep.

As he peered over the hedge towards what he imagined was the bedroom of the house, McBride became aware of a movement at the window of the house immediately next door, on the right. A middle-aged woman, who looked like she was one of those with a shopping bike, gazed unashamedly back at him. He smiled and did his best to nod in a friendly fashion. She gave no indication that she had seen either of his greetings but continued to stare back at him. McBride reasoned that there was probably very little she would not have known about the movements of Ginny Williams while she had lived in the neighbouring house. He entered the garden of the woman, pointlessly ringing her bell as she was already opening the door.

McBride smiled once more, this time endeavouring to appear relaxed but purposeful. ‘Good morning,’ he said in his best official voice. ‘My name’s McBride – I wonder if you can be of assistance to us.’ He used the plural pronoun to indicate he was on a joint mission. ‘It’s about Ginny Williams. Terrible business – but we’re still making enquiries.’ He hoped the scowling woman defensively holding the door open by only a foot would assume the ‘we’ meant the police.

She looked steadily back at him, her face expressionless. ‘You’re not the police,’ she said flatly. ‘Policemen wear ties. Who are you? What do you want?’

He tried to sound reassuring. ‘No, no – press.’ He pulled his National Union of Journalists card, with the photograph that made him look like a mortuary attendant, from his wallet and held it up towards her. ‘We haven’t given up on it either. Like everybody else we want to see someone caught for this. Maybe you can help?’

She said nothing but the door eased open by another six inches.

‘Were you at home when this awful business happened?’

The woman nodded.

‘Did you know any of her friends?’

She nodded again.

‘Were any of them there that night?’

This time she shook her head but also spoke, all suspicion leaving her. ‘She had quite a few friends. Nice people, like her – not yobs. They always waved to me or spoke if I was in the garden. None of
them
would have harmed her in any way.’

McBride inclined his head in agreement. ‘No, of course not. But was there anyone … not her sort … who was hanging around or looking suspicious?’

‘Not that I noticed. I didn’t see anyone arriving but, when I was in bed, I heard the back door closing late on. By the time I got to the window, whoever it was had vanished. It was dark anyway and late.’

‘How late?’

‘Eight minutes before midnight.’

‘Did you hear anything before that – shouting or loud noises of any kind?’

‘Not a cheep – Ginny was very nice, very quiet. She read a lot and used her computer all the time. She studied hard but always had time to speak to me. There was never any trouble.’

McBride chose his next words carefully. ‘Would anyone have got into her house without you seeing – you know, if you happened to be in the garden or at the window?’

She did not take any offence at indirectly being accused of being a busybody. ‘No – unless I was at the front and they came in the back way. If it was after dark and they used the rear path, practically no one would see a person arriving – or leaving.’

McBride had one other thing to ask. ‘Did Ginny have a boyfriend?’

The woman seemed surprised at the question. ‘Not in that way.’ She was almost indignant. ‘Well, not that I knew of – and she would have told me, I’m sure.’

McBride tried to soothe her as he departed. ‘Of course,’ he said gently. ‘You’ve been extremely helpful. Thank you so much.’

As he turned to leave, she suddenly became anxious. ‘I hope you’re not going to put any of this in the paper,’ she said, her voice brimming with apprehension. ‘We’re very private here. We mind our own business, keep ourselves to ourselves. You understand?’

‘Yes, yes. Don’t worry, nothing will appear. This was just between you and me.’

His fellow conspirator gave a relieved smile and retreated into the house. As he walked back down the short garden path, he knew without turning that she would be standing at the window watching.

Like most car journeys, McBride’s return trip through Fife was an opportunity for contemplation and he used the time to idly replay the two conversations he’d had in the tranquil university town. They hadn’t been the most productive, he reflected, but they had reopened a window on a serene way of life that he had almost forgotten existed. He smiled at his memory of the next-door neighbour in Clay Braes. She counted herself as someone who ‘kept herself to herself’ but still had a perfect mental chronicle of every movement Ginny Williams ever made. Douglas Wilson, the chunky golfing journalist, would have been astounded to learn that he probably represented the dream of half the scribes in London – only one deadline a week and the biggest problem in life being whether to go home for lunch or spend the time on the golf practice ground.

McBride remembered Wilson’s parting words to him and smiled once more at the warning he’d been given – ‘He’ll shit on you from a great height …’ Then he recalled what was said to be the occupation of the man who might carry out the arterial defecation – ‘a cop in New Zealand’. A cop? Just like the father of Alison Brown? McBride swore quietly. How did he miss that first time round? Much more importantly, was that coincidence or an essential part of the selection process?

Detective Inspector Petra Novak answered her mobile at once. McBride, caught off guard by her speed, was still wondering what ring tone she would have chosen when she spoke. ‘Novak.’ The voice was brusque, clipped, businesslike. It did not sound like her.

‘Petra? Didn’t think that was you.’ He neglected to introduce himself, unreasonably assuming that he always sounded like himself.

‘Hello, Campbell.’ Her voice softened. ‘Sorry – thought that was one of the guys from work. You must want something?’ She wondered if he would detect the sarcasm.

He didn’t. His mind was too full of what he needed to discuss for irony to be on the agenda. ‘More questions,’ he said. ‘I’m hoping you’ll provide more answers.’

She sighed in mock impatience. ‘Unlikely – you probably know more about Alison Brown’s death than I do.’

‘It’s not about her.’

‘Who then?’

‘Ginny Williams.’

‘Who? Never heard of her. She sounds like a tennis player. Is she?’

‘No. She’s a murder victim.’

Silence. Her long delay made McBride uncomfortable.

Finally, she responded. ‘Sorry. Was negotiating a roundabout. And thinking. OK. I know who you mean now. She’s not one of ours. She was the student over at St Andrews, wasn’t she?’

‘You’re driving?’ It hadn’t occurred to McBride.

‘Yes. Hands-free.’

‘Oh, and what do other parts of you cost?’

‘My, Campbell, you are a card. They’ll be putting you on television next –
An Evening with Campbell McBride
, the sensational new humorist!’

‘Why not? They’ve been after me for years to act as George Clooney’s stand-in! They can tie that in with me being a replacement for Billy Connolly as well – I’d go down a bomb.’

She failed in her attempt to suppress a laugh. ‘OK, I give up. Wish I’d never started it. Look, I know even less about Ginny Williams than I do about Alison Brown. There’s no way I can be of assistance. That’s a Fife case. Ask a friendly cop over there. Now, can you let me make my way to the gym in peace?’

‘Sure. No problem,’ McBride said, preparing to drop his bombshell. ‘You’re right, Alison and Ginny have nothing in common – except that they were probably killed by the same person.’ It was like rolling a hand grenade slowly towards her feet.

‘What?’ It was not a question but an expression of anguish. He enjoyed her discomfort.

After several moments, he spoke. ‘Sorry about that,’ he said insincerely. ‘Thought that would get your attention. Hope you didn’t hit a tree. Can we speak about this off the phone? I need your full attention.’

‘Bastard,’ she replied. ‘Since you’ve been such a shit, you can buy me a coffee and something to eat. You can do both at my gym.’ She gave him directions and told him not to appear for an hour, by which time she would have completed her workout.

The Next Generation health and fitness centre, just off the highway behind Monifieth, is a squat, functional building made of yellow and grey concrete blocks. It is surrounded by a car park that looks too big but every evening it is full to overflowing. No more strategic spot could have been chosen when the owners looked for a site for their new club in the Dundee area. They built it on the edge of one of the most prosperous, developing townships in the district, where the young incomers had money to spend and prematurely bloated bodies to reshape. The thousands who joined paid the highest gym fees for miles around but, for their money, they received unrivalled facilities. McBride knew from the moment he walked through the door that he would take out a membership – not just for the use of the swimming pools and one of the largest gymnasiums he’d ever seen but also as a launch pad for new relationships with athletic women. He watched an endless procession of them pass by as he waited for Petra to appear.

When she strode across the restaurant floor to greet him precisely an hour after they had spoken, she was in another new persona. Her hair was still wet, her cheeks glowed and her teeth shone brighter than ever. She wore a close-fitting white, polo-neck jumper and designer denims than looked as though they’d come out of a gun in a paint-shop. To his surprise, she embraced him briefly, turning one of the radiant cheeks to him to be kissed. He complied willingly.

In sympathy with the surroundings, they ordered sensible food. He added a white coffee and she asked for half a pint of Guinness. McBride’s jaw must have dropped because the request was swiftly accompanied by an explanation that it was required to replace nutrients lost in the workout session. He nodded, unconvinced, but made a mental note to use the excuse the next time he wanted to get pissed.

Their small talk lasted at least ninety seconds before Petra cut to the chase. ‘OK, give it to me,’ she demanded.

Although he had prepared what he would say to her while he sat waiting for her, McBride was still uncertain how to start. He began at the end. ‘A year after Alison Brown was murdered in her home, the body of Ginny Williams was found in her house a dozen or so miles away. Both of them were about the same age and both had been strangled.’ He paused and looked across the table at his surprised companion.

‘Is that it?’ the wet-haired detective inspector asked, incredulity spreading across her face. ‘That adds up to a serial killer, does it? Let’s get real, Campbell.’

It was the response he had anticipated. ‘Relax,’ McBride soothed, ‘that’s the easy bit.’

For the next few minutes, he recounted in detail the series of events that had prompted his move back to Dundee and the growing conviction that a double killer was at large.

His summary of his initial bookshop meeting with Adam Gilzean, followed by the prison visit to son Bryan, was received with interest but not much else.

It was only when he slowly narrated the sequence of communications that had come into his possession that he knew he had her undivided attention. He told her of the letter sent to him via his publisher, leading to the discovery of the missing words cut from the court report of Bryan Gilzean’s trial. Then he described how he had unearthed similar extractions in the library about the death of Ginny Williams and the subsequent arrival of another letter, apparently from the same source.

She did not interrupt him until he finally stopped speaking. ‘My God, Campbell – this is straight out of a John Grisham novel,’ she said, shaking her head in something approaching disbelief. ‘Who else have you told about this?’

It was his turn to shake his head. ‘Just you – and I won’t be spreading it around any more either. I want the same promise from you,’ he told her.

She raised a questioning eyebrow.

‘In case you’ve forgotten, I’m a reporter,’ he explained. ‘Mention it in the wrong place and there will be a big splash in the tabloids about a mad strangler on the loose. The fact that it’s my story is only the half of it. If I’m right that Alison and Ginny shared the same killer, then the murderer and the message-sender would have to be the same person. Who else would know? Who would be able to make the link? But start to make that public and he could take fright and vanish as quickly as he seems to have come to the surface. My guess is that this has some way still to run. This isn’t a guy who is in hiding and keeping quiet about what he’s done. He wants us – me – to know about his murderous activities. God alone knows why. But he can’t tell me straight out. He’s some kind of fruitcake getting a kick out of spinning me out. He has to drop clues for me to follow up. What sort of psychotic is that? Whatever else he is, he’s a control freak. So far, the only way we’ve any chance of finding out who he is, is by keeping him interested. He’s still in charge of the game and that’s the way he likes it. Scare him off and he’ll drop right out of sight, probably for good.’